Morituri

XXI.

F lavius had been in Rome on business for the past ten days, closing a major deal: Amongst other fighting schools, his Ludus Flavianus would supply the Roman Games! Held in honour of Jupiter, the Games would start on the Kalends of September, and would last fifteen days, four of them comprising theatrical performances, the rest featuring chariot races, animal shows – and every sort of gladiatorial combat.

But due to the large number of fights which would be scheduled for such a huge event, the casualties amongst the fighting personnel were sure to be heavy indeed. Along with the numerous smaller events which focused on classical hand-to-hand combats, major shows like the Roman Games also involved massive recreations of famous battle scenes, requiring huge numbers of fighters. Even one such production would demand more personnel than Flavius could comfortably provide at the moment, and he could ill afford to send his carefully selected fighters, in whose training he had invested so much time and money, to such a wholesale slaughter.

So he had reached an agreement with the organizing magistrate that the members of his squad would only star in the main one-on-one bouts which attracted the largest audiences. There, his more popular fighters stood a better chance of being spared by the bloodthirsty crowds, even if they were to lose a fight. Even so, the outcome of a contest could never be certain; surely several prized gladiators would find themselves passengers of Charon, the grim boatman who plied the dark waters of the river Styx – the river called 'horror' – which led into the underworld.

Still, Flavius was thrilled by the project, and not only because it would earn him a small fortune. Having been conferred with the honour of being an official supplier of the Roman Games, he had set foot into the big business of gladiatorial sports, and a good performance by his squad could only establish him there. If his school could grow and he could get a contract for a large number of fighters for the coming season, he would be set for life!

Apart from this major undertaking, Flavius had also negotiated a small, but prestigious arrangement with none other than Publius Aurelius Sejanus, the designated Prefect of the Praetorian Guard. Coming from an old, but not particular wealthy family, Sejanus had been in chronic financial trouble until he had had the good fortune of being adopted by Marcus Aurelius Meridius, a politically influential ex-consul who had noticed the potential of the ambitious young man. The Gens Aurelia was one of the wealthiest families in Rome, and now that he was a man of both status and wealth, Sejanus could actually afford the luxurious lifestyle he had always led.

Amongst his many and varied interests, Sejanus had hit upon a rather unusual hobby which was considered highly inappropriate for a man of his patrician background. While in search of new entertainments for the Lucullan revelries of the rich, he and some like-minded friends had discovered that mano-a-mano combats between two scantily clad young women added a certain debauched zest to such events. It was of little concern to him that female gladiators were held in the lowest regard, and considered to be even lower on the social scale than their male counterparts. For in a Rome eternally torn between a scandalized contempt for misconduct and the prurient appeal of the most lurid bacchanals imaginable, Sejanus had stumbled upon a most agreeable way to exploit the empire's moral hypocrisy. As a favourite of the emperor, he could well afford to ignore the snobbishness of his old-fashioned peers – and accordingly he had decided to have some girls of his own trained to be fighters at one of the family's country estates.

But opponents for his protegées were hard to find. There was only one school around Capua which had specialized in the training of female fighters, a school which also produced a number of the rare fist-fighting cestiatae. Their name derived from the ancient Spartan sport of boxing with the cestus – wooden plates, sometimes garnished with metal studs, bound to wrists and fists; only the strongest and bravest of women could long survive in this discipline, which demanded courage greater than that of almost any other gladiator, since its dauntless practitioners had to be trained to receive and endure blows rather than merely evade them. Cestus-fighting required courage of a high order, one to which few young women could aspire. But those who did were made for life. Cestus fights to the death were rare, and even if one was staged and promoted as such, a cestiata usually fell victim to a combination of fatigue, loss of blood, and sheer pain, before death could claim her. The cestiatae were much too valuable to be lost casually, so most survived, prospered, and were eventually freed. But girls who possessed the requisite attributes of endurance, fighting skill, courage and beauty, were as rare and as prized as vestal virgins.

It was the good fortune of Flavius that he could muster Byrria, the Thracian tigress, who had few rivals in this archaic but prestigious discipline, having been trained to do battle with the cestus during her youth in Thrace. And so it was that Flavius and Sejanus had come to terms regarding a fight between Byrria and Sejanus' most promising girl. The young patrician had been so confident of the fighting skills of his girl that he scheduled the bout to take place at his own villa in July, at a private banquet celebrating his elevation to the post of Praetorian Prefect.

In the meantime, Flavius planned to increase his one-woman cestus department by training Taleena, who seemed to possess all of the virtues needed for such a demanding discipline – not to mention a face and figure that would stir the loins of the pleasure-seeking sons of Rome. But unfortunately there was no quick way to produce a capable cestiata; learning the art of the cestus required months, perhaps years, of training and practice – difficult and dangerous training that claimed half of the possible recruits before they had fought a single real battle – and the Gaul had yet to pass the standard basic training required of all the gladiators in his employ.

* * *

Upon his return to the arena, Flavius had wasted no time in informing himself of the progress his recruits had made during his absence, and of course he had quickly learned of the incidents which had led to the fatal flogging of the young Iberian girl and the severe punishment of the proud Avernian. He had not been unduly chagrined by the loss of the Baetican, since it was merely a cost of doing business; she had shown clearly that she had no future as a fighter. By the time of her fatal 'accident' Flavius had become resigned to the idea of selling her to some lusty old senator with a taste for round-bottomed young girls in order to recoup his investment. Selia, after all, had been something of a throw-in when he had bought the other slaves from Balbinius.

As to the Gaul, the situation was rather more complicated. From the beginning he had had misgivings that the defiant nature of the blue-eyed beauty who had glared at him so fearlessly even while enmeshed in shackles on the wharf at Ostia, would get her into trouble. So much so that he had almost encouraged Byrria to cure his headstrong acquisition of her somewhat insolent nature. He hadn't needed an oracle to foretell that a rivalry would soon spring up between the two strong-willed women.

Calixtus had related to him, with more than grudging approval, that the Gaul had not screamed once during her punishment. Being quite familiar with Byrria's expertise with the whip, Flavius had to agree with his chief-instructor that this was another testimonial to the courage of the flaxen-haired beauty, the same kind of courage she had shown as she had silently endured her branding at her first day in his school. Musing about that impressive display of fortitude, Flavius caught himself picturing the golden-haired Gaul hanging naked from the whipping post, squirming, moaning, twisting under the flesh-searing strokes as she strove to cheat both her tormentress and the leering audience of the prurient satisfaction of hearing her cry…

Knowing Byrria as he did, Flavius could well imagine the ruthlessness with which his Thracian tigress had flogged the proud, long-legged blonde whom she seemed to have viewed as a rival from the moment they had met. Byrria had a history of displaying jealousy whenever a new female recruit arrived at the arena, and more than one novice had come to regret meeting the high standards Flavius had set in regard to looks and skill.

But apart from Byrria, who had warmed his bed for some time, Flavius had made it a point not to give in to the temptations accruing to a man in his position. He had always felt that exploiting the charms of some of his female charges would lead to dissension and accusations of favouritism. In fact, Byrria was a shining example of his theory that it was good sense to keep business and privacy strictly apart – Calixtus was probably not the only one who imagined that Byrria had earned her position with her sheath, not her sword. Flavius was willing to concede that point to some extent – Byrria's talents at indoor sports even eclipsed her skills in the ring. Even so, he had never met a woman who could fight like the Thracian, and he couldn't think of anyone better suited for the post of the female lanista . Still, Byrria's appointment had never been well received by the other fighters.

In all fairness, Flavius had to admit that Byrria's jealousy of the Avernian wasn't completely unfounded. He had been intrigued by the blonde Gaul's beauty ever since he had first seen her, shackled and all-but-naked, during the disembarkation of Balbinus' slaves at Ostia. But he had been surprised to find that thoughts of her filled both his waking and sleeping hours, even during his trip to Rome – whose fleshpots offered every imaginable pleasure (and some he could not have imagined) to a man well-stocked with sesterces. Nevertheless he still retained a special fascination for Taleena, the splendid young woman who combined beauty with fighting spirit and a will that had made her choose a place on the rower's bench over a place a the side of a doting but demanding master like Balbinus.

Byrria seemed to have sensed his drifting attention, because upon his return late the prior evening, she had met him at the door, wearing a skimpy garment consisting of two pieces of filigree chain mail. The halves of the sleeveless, low-cut top were held together by a coin-sized silver clasp that nestled between her pouting breasts whose fullness strained the fragile-looking fastener to its limit. The contrast between hard glittering metal and soft womanly flesh was further enhanced by an expanse of bare belly-skin and the two brief triangles of silvery meshwork that were held in place around her loins by a silver chain. The flickering light given off by the oil lamps in the room caused the gleaming metal to shimmer seductively, even more so as it danced lightly over the tempting contours of her body.

Flavius had felt his mouth dry and his manly erection stiffen as he took in her charms. He had stared at her barely-concealed breasts hungrily, wondering how the tiny chain-links had teased her nipples to such a provocative pointiness that they seemed to dent their erotic armour. His roving eyes had explored the long shapely legs that she had wrapped around his waist and neck and shoulders on so many prior occasions, but tonight Byrria had been in no mood for posing for his pleasure, as she had done so artfully when first she had seduced him.

She had dragged him to their sleeping-room like a tigress dragging fresh prey to her lair, brushing off his mild protests of fatigue from his journey with contemptuous disdain. She had torn at his tunic with hands and teeth, and when he was naked she had attacked his genitals with single-minded dedication, stroking, cupping, kissing, licking, coordinating the movements of her body with the grace of a gymnast. She had stripped off her silvery breast-covering and pressed the smoothness of his saliva-wet erection against and between her dark-nippled breasts until it rose from his groin in all of its virile glory. Then she had torn feverishly at the web of silver laces around her waist, whipped off the scanty loin-cloth and climbed onto his phallus, to ride it with the skill and passion of a Minoan bull-rider, bouncing up and down on him until their two bodies were bathed in sex-sweat, her interior muscles gripping, constricting, milking his swollen penis, while her hands alternately raked her nails across his chest and then cupped and squeezed her own breasts in the throes of an animalistic passion.

But throughout it all, Flavius could not put the image of the golden-haired Gaul out of his mind. In the sensual half-light of their bedchamber, he imagined that it was Taleena's tawny thighs that straddled him, her sensuous lips worshipping his manhood, her luscious breasts embracing it, and her beautiful backside bouncing on his thighs, and that it was her blonde-fringed woman slit which was trying to consume his pleasure-shaft with such voraciousness. As his frenzied lust mounted he imagined that Byrria had surprised the amorous lovers, and that in her wrath she was sweeping her dreadful lash across Taleena's bare back even as the blonde rocked back and forth on his raging erection. Caught in his erotic reverie, Flavius lowered his hands from Taleena's love-mounds to her smooth thighs so that the whip could wrap around her bobbling breasts, stinging them with its fiery kiss, even as he timed the tempo of his fierce upward lunges to the rhythm of the whip cracks. And this time, in his mind's eye, Taleena, ravaged by pain and pleasure, did scream, at his every manly thrust. So intense was his desire, so swept away was he by his passion, that when Byrria's cock-pleasuring convulsions had finally done their work and transported him to Elysian peaks of ecstasy, he was not sure that he had not called out Taleena's name…

* * *

Flavius took up his customary place on the balcony, and looked down at the training area with mixed emotions. The Gaul was the last to arrive in the yard, but he considered the fact that she was attending the training at all to be a good omen; not many recruits would have done so in her condition. Punishments such as she had endured were hardly uncommon in a gladiator's life, but while the Gaul had certainly been guilty of insubordinate behaviour, Flavius was concerned that Byrria had badly mistimed the nature and extent of her flogging. Notwithstanding the weekly punishments, the two lanistae of the Ludus Flavianus were under strict instructions to put even more pressure on the candidates in the third week, setting even higher physical and mental standards than before.

Flavius' watchful eyes followed Taleena as she took her place in the line. As usual she was wearing the sparse combination of loin-and-breast-cloths that drew attention to her luscious curves as much as it concealed them. Once again he was intrigued by the way her poise lent her a semblance of dignity, even though the cruel stripes traversing her upper body told the story of her degradation at the whipping post more vividly than an Ovidian poem could have done. Flavius had granted Byrria some scope to take the headstrong Gaul to her limits in this third week, but warned her again not to overdo it – if the aggravated rigours of the training, coupled with the aftermath of her whipping, should break Taleena's spirit, he would have to bury his plans to make her the second cestiata in his squad.

As he watched the whip-ravaged blonde take her place in the line, Flavius was confident that it would take more than a flogging to make this girl buckle under the strain. After all, her dogged defiance had enabled her to survive her stint on the bench of Balbinus' galley, and to frustrate his machinations to subvert her will. But before Flavius was to have a chance to observe how the proud Gaul would respond to the rigours of the day's drill, there was yet another punishment to be carried out…

* * *

As soon as she entered the courtyard, Taleena sensed that something unusual was brewing. It was not only Flavius' presence on the balcony, or the absence of the poor, doomed Selia, but there was something else, something vague but sinister, that produced an almost palpable tension in the air.

Both recruits and fighters had lined up in front of the building, and the guards and the archers on the roofs seemed to be on the alert. After two weeks of balmy spring weather the clouds in the gray sky overhead seemed heavy with gloom, as if they had absorbed all of the tears in the Roman world, and were preparing to shed them on the Ludus Flavianus. The cool April breeze that swept through the yard carried the bitter bite of Boreas, the north wind, who seemed to have risen with the dawn in a wrathful temper.

Taleena was aware of the glances of her fellow-trainees who seemed to be appraising her condition as she hurriedly approached her comrades. As she neared her place in line alongside Arminius, she noticed to her surprise that there were not one, but two openings in the ranks of the recruits. Hamilkar Barkas, the tall Phoenician, stood to her left, next to the other open space, and while a small part of her attention was given over to determining which member of the squad was missing, she was more concerned with the familiar crosspieces which were positioned in front of each trainee and promised another onerous run.

Particularly with the peculiar qualities of the beam that awaited the missing candidate. The ends of that ghastly beam were propped up on stones, in order to keep its dreadful adornment off of the uneven ground. For the entire length of the wooden beam had been wreathed in finger-thick, thorn-bearing withes, which rendered the cruel cross-piece an even more oppressive load for the poor fellow who would have to carry it.

"How nice of you to join us, at last," Byrria welcomed the troubled Avernian in a voice drenched in sarcasm. After impatiently waiting for Taleena to take her place, Byrria circled her, her eyes flashing with sinister intent. "We are all anxious to begin with the execution of today's punishment. It shall be a lesson to those who think they can ignore my orders!" she sneered, casting Taleena a meaningful glance. "While you apparently have chosen to forget it, I remember giving an order that your back was not to be treated after your flogging !"

"No! You can't!" Taleena cried out despairingly. She felt her emotions rapidly spinning out of control as the identity of the bearer of the dreadful cross-piece became clear.

"But I can, Gaul! And I will." Byrria snapped back. "You two should have considered the risk before flouting my orders. Don't waste your breath on denials, because your fine friend has already confessed. And the fool has even insisted on taking the full responsibility for this breach of duty, despite your obvious consent." She paused a moment, displaying her usual flair for the dramatic, before shouting, "Bring her forward!" in the direction of the staff building.

Standing at attention like the rest of the lined-up fighters, Taleena heard shuffling steps behind her back, coming from the direction of the staff building. Turning her head furtively to the left, she spotted a pair of guards jerking Breaca roughly from side to side as they marched her along. The proud Celtic warrioress did her best to march between her captors with a semblance of dignity, but even so they handled her rudely before finally sending her sprawling in the dirt in front of the thorn-bristling crosspiece.

Breaca had been stripped all but naked by her captors, and wore only a meagre loin-cloth which consisted of no more than a tiny triangle of fabric at the front, and a mere thong parting her buttocks, joined around her loins by a simple string. Her wrists had been tied behind her back, her elbows cinched tightly together by another length of rope, and when the guards threw her forward into the sand, her face hit the dirt. Deprived of the use of her hands, Breaca struggled awkwardly to her knees and turned her head, and for an instant her green eyes met Taleena's, but there was no reproach in them, only wild defiance

Still, Taleena was consumed by feelings of guilt as she watched the mistreatment of her brave companion. She berated herself for not having sent Breaca away when the good-hearted Celt had offered to help her. But the pain from her flogging had been so dreadful that she had not had the heart or the will to turn her away. And who would have believed that such a harmless act of mercy could have led to a public humiliation such as the one to which Breaca was now being subjected. Who, for that matter, would have dreamed that Byrria could ever have learned of their mutual transgression? As Taleena looked at the grotesque lattice-work of old whip-scars that criss-crossed Breaca's bare back, the mere thought that that fair skin might be ripped anew by the whip almost turned her stomach.

"All of you witnessed the Gaul's punishment two days ago," Byrria went on, now addressing the entire audience, but pointing at Taleena who was trembling with considerable trepidation. "All of you heard me say that her wounds were not to be treated! But obviously there are some here who have decided to challenge my authority!"

Byrria's breasts rose and fell as her dark eyes glared intently at the recruits. She gave Taleena a withering glance before looking coldly down at the prostrate gladiatrix at her feet. "Ignorance of the rules is one thing, but deliberate interference with a punishment ordained by those whom Flavius Autronius has endowed with authority is inexcusable! She glanced toward Calixtus, who was standing to one size looking down at his fallen fighter with a pained expression. For being chief-instructor it was his responsibility to announce her sentence.

"For attempting to interfere with an ordained punishment, the offender shall be put on display for the duration of one training day," the barrel-chested lanista boomed authoritatively, but Taleena thought that she detected a tremor of uncertainty in his voice. For as best she could remember Byrria had only proscribed treatment at the infirmary. But she had been so ravaged with pain at the time of Byrria's ruling that she could not be sure, even now, of exactly what Byrria had said.

"You heard the chief-instructor! Put the Briton on display!" the wild-eyed lanista ordered as she turned toward the guards who had thrown Breaca to the ground. Byrria placed her feet squarely in front of Taleena and glared at her as she continued. "Her punishment will serve as a lesson to any others who might dare to defy the will of Flavius Autronius!"

Taleena met Byrria's stony gaze with growing outrage, but she recognized that her nemesis had been clever in suggesting that Breaca's infraction had been an offence against Flavius himself, rather than merely a violation of her own heartless dictum. What, she wondered, did it mean to be put "on display"? And how could Byrria have gotten wind of the forbidden medical treatment at all? Had she seen Breaca leaving her cell? Or had someone betrayed them? Taleena's mind was filled with unresolved questions, but the second stage of Breaca's ordeal had seized her attention before the answers were forthcoming.

"On your feet!" one of the guard barked at the prostrate gladiatrix, and when he spoke, Taleena recognized the high voice, and the scales fell from her eyes. Rutilius! Taleena remembered with a shudder how Breaca had upbraided the young bully when she had interrupted his assault on Taleena. Neither woman had dreamed that the craven pervert would have dared to expose himself to the reproach of having loitered in the recruits' quarters, but somehow the disgusting youth had found a way to accuse them without attaching blame to himself. And now the despicable guard would have the opportunity to make the woman who had disparaged him pay dearly for her insults!

"Pick up the beam!" Rutilius ordered the near-naked Celt, after having used his sword to cut her bonds, and the sadistic glee in his eyes boded ill for the ginger-haired delinquent. During the previous punishments, including Taleena's, Rutilius had been a mere henchman, while the two lanistae had carried out the floggings; but today he seemed to have been charged with the execution of Breaca's castigation himself, and he was clearly excited by the prospect. Enjoying his moment on center stage to the fullest, the pock-faced youth licked his lips in anticipation of his moment of triumph.

Breaca glared contemptuously at the surly young guard, but when he drove the hob-nailed sole of his leather caliga into her upper thigh to urge her on, she grimaced in pain and pulled herself up on her hands and knees before rising slowly to her feet. She took a deep breath and bent down to seize the thorn-bristling cross-piece by the nails projecting from its ends. Straightening her legs, the bare-breasted Briton lifted the beam off the ground, holding it at the level of her loins, striving to keep the fiendish thorns away from her well-toned thighs. Then she jerked up the log and lunged forward, thus heaving her dreadful load over her head like a weightlifter, before bringing her bare feet together to improve her balance.

Following her friend's efforts out of the corner of her eye, Taleena was quite impressed by the manner in which the brave Celt had managed to pick up her load without being cut by the thorns, but she was also well aware that Breaca's momentary success had left Rutilius highly unsatisfied.

As Breaca struggled to hold the thorn-beam aloft, the muscles in her limbs straining under her burden, and Taleena noticed a pattern of red blotches that marred the pale perfection of her pink-crested mounds. Rutilius – or perhaps both guards – had clearly taken indecent liberties with their full-breasted prisoner in the staff building before dragging her into public view. Shuddering with disgust Taleena could only take comfort in the fact that Byrria was not armed with her dreadful whip. But then she noticed that Rutilius was carrying an ominous thorn-bearing pole about the length and girth of a man's arm…

Rutilius's shifty eyes lingered on Breaca's nudity for a few moments, obviously enjoying subjugating the ginger-haired Celt in such degrading fashion. But then, with a business-like "Let's go!" Rutilius prodded the delinquent forward, toward the center of the arena, and a gasp from the lined-up onlookers announced the entry of the near-naked Celt into their field of vision.

The male recruits gazed at the gladiatrix' tempting figure, noticing the scars on her supple back, and an awed gasp revealed what most of them thought about this sacrilege to beauty. Breaca's raised arms gave her muscles an attractive definition, while her slim waist almost belied her full, gently curving hips, which broadened into a pair of sensuously-contoured, milky-white buttocks which jiggled most salaciously with each trudging step.

There had been some fidgeting in the ranks of the fighters when Calixtus had announced Breaca's prospective ordeal, and out of the corner of her eye Taleena had noticed that Breaca's inscrutable twin, Verica, had been about to vent her anger at the unjust punishment of her blood-sister. But Tyra, the tall Nubian net-fighter who stood alongside her, had placed a firm hand on her Celtic comrade's shoulder to prevent her from taking some ill-considered action. Neither Taleena nor any of the others knew much about the other Celtic twin, who steadfastly avoided the company of everyone save for her sister. In fact none of them had ever hear Verica utter so much as a single word. But it was clear that if Tyra had not intervened, the ever-silent Verica would surely have thrown herself at the guards in an attempt to protect her sister from their cruelties. For had it not been Breaca's bold defense of this same sister that had resulted in the fifty-stroke-flogging that had left her back scarred for life?

His lecherous eyes fixed on Breaca's thong-split buttocks, a leering Rutilius gave Breaca another unnecessary prod in the back. The Celtic beauty turned her head and gave the ill-featured guard a look that bespoke the pain and outrage in her soul. But Rutilius returned her glare with a contemptuous grin and jabbed her in the back even more rudely. Breaca stumbled forward under the fierce impact until the wavering weight of the crossbeam caused her to crumple under the heavy load.

Rutilius' craven attack from the rear brought another gasp of protest from the recruits and an angry murmur from the fighters, while Taleena turned her head away to avoid the sight of her comrade's fall. Nevertheless, she could not help but hear the ear-piercing scream which had been torn from Breaca's pretty mouth, and the muffled moan from Verica who stood only a few paces to her left.

Biting her lip fearfully, Taleena forced herself to look upon the friend who had risked all to help her. Breaca was kneeling on the ground with her back to the audience. Her reflexive reaction to her fall had caused her to lower her hands to chest-level in order to bring the unwieldy beam under control. But no one in the audience could fail to wonder what havoc the lowering of the thorn-beam had wrought on her bare breasts.

"Back on your feet, bitch!" Rutilius snapped ruthlessly at the wounded gladiatrix, once more earning Taleena's withering contempt.

Breaca groaned in misery as she heaved the thorny cross-piece up again, wincing as the strenuous motion lifted her tortured breasts higher upon her chest. Her nipples, chilled to taut raspberries by the crisp morning air, jiggled enticingly as she struggled back to her feet. Rutilius continued to prod her with the thorn-club, more teasingly than forcefully, until the small procession reached the very center of the arena. "That's better. Now that you're out here where everyone can see you," he muttered, "you can get back on your knees, bitch," Rutilius smirked, brandishing his menacing thorn-club as if he were an animal trainer at the Circus Maximus.

The place of Breaca's shameful exhibition was some twenty yards away from the lined of onlookers and at right angles to them, so that they were treated to the sight of the kneeling, near-naked body of the ginger-haired Celt in magnificent profile. Taleena shivered empathetically at the sight of her courageous comrade. Though she could not be sure from such a distance, she was almost certain that she could make out tiny droplets of blood dripping from Breaca's bare breasts as she held her arms bravely aloft, balancing her cruel burden over her head.

XXII.

F rom his vantage point up on the balcony, Flavius had a most enviable position for viewing the dreadful discipline being visited upon the Celtic beauty. The athletic young redhead knelt facing him, her voluptuous body held ramrod straight, her watery green eyes staring indifferently in his direction, her lovely face a graven image of defiance as she fought valiantly to stave off disaster. Blood oozed from the wounds where the thorns had speared the proffered gentleness of her breasts. The thin red rivulets contrasted cruelly with the paleness of her flesh, as they faithfully followed the well-toned contours of her nude torso.

While hardly insusceptible to the dark erotic quality of the scene before him, Flavius' anger at the bloody sight in the courtyard exceeded his arousal. This was punishment for the sake of punishment, even though Byrria had tried to give it the aegis of his authority. He was not averse to meting out discipline, even harsh discipline, as his speech before the cross had made clear. But he could not condone spiteful punishments, particularly if they threatened to mar the beauty of his hand-picked female fighters. Young women with the heart and strength and beauty to win plaudits in the arena were not easy to find. And abusing their valuable bodies purely out of spite or malice was as foolish as throwing sesterces into the Roman Sea. He had warned Rutilius about exceeding his authority once before, and he intended to let him know in no uncertain terms that merchandise as fine as Breaca was not to be damaged so heedlessly. Another such stunt and he would send the presumptuous young guard packing!

,

The scene that had just happened down in the yard had not been the first time that the lad had made a bad impression, though. Flavius had never liked the voyeuristic pleasure with which Sejanus' protégé had constantly ogled the female trainees. There was nothing wrong, of course, with eyeing a scantily-clad woman with the virile interest one would expect in any guy's guy. But to give short shrift to one's duties in order to skulk around and spy on the young beauties from secret hiding places – this was disgraceful. And there was a cowardice and falseness about the lad's attitude which Flavius found difficult to stomach.

Calixtus had told him a graphic tale about how he had caught Rutilius preying on the Baetican girl after her first flogging. A grim smile played around Flavius' mouth when he recalled the scene Calixtus had depicted so colourfully, using his entire arsenal of army invectives – how he had grabbed the young man by the groin, through the folds of his tunic, giving the squeaking, choking youth a piece of his mind. Flavius could well imagine the grim ex-centurion shouting the young man down like a callow army recruit; but Calixtus' little show, as impressive as it might have been on the young man's testicles, had apparently not been deterrent enough to keep the lad away from the girl-recruits' quarters.

Flavius cursed under his breath, regretting the day that he had taken Rutilius into his employ. He had only done so to win favour with Sejanus, who numbered Rutilius' father among his more important clients. And although the future Praetorian Prefect didn't care about the lad's progress anymore, it might be a good thing to show that the old quid pro quo routine was still observed on Flavius' side.

Flavius had little confidence in the unlikely story which Rutilius had cooked up. The youth had come before him claiming that he had happened to see Breaca leaving the infirmary and heading stealthily for the cells, and that he had followed her there to see what she was up to. It was far more likely, thought Flavius that the voyeuristic youth had secreted himself somewhere in the cell-block so that he could spy on the naked Gaul as she suffered the aftermath of her flogging.

Flavius continued to stare intently at the bloodied breasts of the Celtic beauty down in the center of the arena, while a fitting form of retribution began to form in Flavius' mind, a way in which the protégé of his powerful friend would come to regret his carelessness. Yes, the malevolent boy-guard would pay for damaging his property…

Notwithstanding Rutilius' unconvincing story of how he had come to witness the event, there seemed but little doubt but that the Celt had indeed treated the Avernian's back, in spite of Byrria's pronouncement. It was a separate question, of course, whether Byrria's admonition had been well-considered, but regardless an order was an order, and it had only taken Flavius a moment to convince himself that Breaca's insubordination did indeed warrant some form of punishment. In fact, he had noticed before that she had become a little too smug after her recent successes in the ring, and had taken little liberties to which she was not entitled. It was time to take her down a peg or two. Since it was paramount that discipline be maintained, he had quickly agreed with Byrria's demand that Breaca be punished for her rather insignificant offence.

But it was only after their passionate bout of love-making on the prior evening that Flavius, in a moment of weakness, had consented to Byrria's request to consider subjecting Breaca to the terrible ordeal which now confronted her. When he had met with his lanistae at dawn to render his final decision, Calixtus had pointed out that no woman at the Ludus Flavianus had ever been subjected to the torment in question. But a bristling Byrria had contemptuously dismissed that argument out of hand. Were not, she had argued, the women to compete with the men in every respect, just as they would one day have to do in the ring?

In the end Flavius had consented somewhat reluctantly. But whether the punishment was justified or not, he was also well aware that the other fighters were growing more and more restive at Byrria's cruelty. If he didn't want to run the risk of a mutiny, he would have to convince his vindictive Thracian tigress to forswear the enmities she harboured for his other female squad-members. And if she were still not willing to listen to reason… Flavius smiled grimly to himself as he thought how ironic it would be if the day were to come when Byrria's own punitive methods would be used against her…

* * *

Down in the yard, the preliminaries for putting Breaca on display had been completed, and Taleena, like the rest of the spectators, could now see the full extent of the Celt's misery.

Flavius had dubbed this dreadful punishment the "Thorns of Atlas" long ago, in reference to the unfaithful Titan who had been condemned to support the vault of heaven on his shoulders. Having seen the deterrent effect this degrading form of display had on miscreants and spectators alike during his own days at a gladiatorial school, he had decided to incorporate this most rigorous form of punishment into the disciplinary practices of the Ludus Flavianus.

The slender thorn-bristling pole which Rutilius had used as a prod had been placed in the hollows of the delinquent's knees, and even if the weight of the wood was not enough to cause the thorns to pierce her taut skin, the sharp spines would prevent the kneeling woman from relaxing back on her haunches, thus forcing her knees to bear her entire weight as well as the weight of the beam. Breaca's wrists had been tied to the outer ends of the cross-piece, and the broken shafts of four spears had been rammed into the ground such that their sharp heads were only a hand's width from her bare midriff – two targeting her kidneys from behind, two aiming from the same distance at either side of her deep-etched navel.

Taleena had watched the preparations in stomach-wrenching dismay, doubting that her Celtic comrade could stand an entire day of this hideous torture. For a woman, Breaca had unquestionable strength in her arms and shoulders, but just as Hercules had soon grown tired of filling in for Atlas, Breaca would not be able to hold the beam overhead for too long. From her own experience on the galley bench, Taleena knew that Breaca's muscles would first weaken, then cramp, and then slowly melt away as the flickering flames of agony licked at their strength. It was only a matter of time until she would have to lower the thorny beam to her shoulders for the first time – for the first of many times – until she could no longer hold it up at all. The sharp spearheads at her midsection would prevent her from bending forward or shifting her weight much in any direction. And thus she would be forced to kneel upright and stiff for endless hours, poising her dreadful load on her tortured shoulders until her sentence would be completed.

Taleena had been so transfixed by the sight of Breaca's awful plight that she didn't realize that the Thracian had sidled up to her until Byrria whispered to her sibilantly. "If I had had my way, you'd be kneeling out there alongside your obstinate friend!" The raven-haired lanista gave Taleena a menacing smile and slid around behind her and proceeded to draw a sharp fingernail down the length of Taleena's back, across the many still-fresh striations, while Taleena gritted her teeth and turned her face away to hide her pain.

"So how does it feel, Gaul," Byrria hissed, "to watch your friend suffer, knowing that you are the cause of her misery?" The Thracian Tigress grabbed a handful of Taleena's blonde hair, forcing her to look at her thorn-ravaged friend. "Look at her, Gaul! Do you see how her lovely body trembles under the strain? And this is only the beginning; the beginning of a day that she will think will have no end. Watch her, Gaul, watch her closely. For soon you will have need of her courage!"

* * *

When the finishing touches had been put to Breaca's positioning, an awed silence fell over the yard, for every person in the yard remembered Calixtus' words that the Celt was to be left on display for the duration of an entire training day. All eyes were riveted on the nearly-naked miscreant who knelt so forlornly in the middle of the yard. An imaginative onlooker might well have detected a grotesque resemblance between Breaca's well-sculpted body and the statue of a female Atlas.

But the two lanistae proceeded immediately with the daily routine, leaving the other recruits little time to concern themselves with Breaca's fate. At the command of Calixtus, the trainees were ordered to hoist the beams which had been laid out in front of them, while the senior fighters were sent to the far side of the arena to resume their daily sword practice. As Taleena tried to shoulder her beam, she was forced to admire the strength and skill which Breaca had shown in lifting her cross-piece, since it was only with some difficulty that she managed to slide her own slender body under the crossbeam that had been designated as hers. .

She started down the track, as did her comrades, but none of them had proceeded much further than a hundred yards, when Calixtus abruptly signalled for them to stop in front of the bath house. The recruits fell to their knees as directed, facing a brisk morning breeze, and Taleena and the others tried to guess at the reason for this unexpected interruption.

And then, as a sudden gust of wind caused her to shiver with cold and apprehension, Taleena understood. A number of the compound's attendants were making their way out of the bathhouse – each of them carrying two wooden pails filled with water.

Taleena had long wondered why heavy nails had been driven into each end of the beams that she and the other recruits carried. But now the purpose of the nails became starkly, dreadfully clear. The attendants slipped the rope handles of the water pails over the nails by which the recruits held the beams, thus adding considerable weight to each candidate's burden.

Byrria looked down at the crouching blonde whose shoulders were bent low under her yoke, and with a malicious glint in her eyes she studied the welts which traversed the smooth, well-toned planes of Taleena's back as if they were a scarlet-lettered dedication which she had etched in the taut parchment of the blonde's fair skin.

"The Celt has done a fine job tending to your back, Gaul," the dark-eyed instructress began in a voice dripping with scorn. "You must take care that you do not thwart all of her labours." Byrria reached down to undo the ribbon that held the strophium in place around Taleena's chest. "We wouldn't want this cloth to chafe your welts, would we?"

Taleena flinched at the Thracian's words, finding her false compassion even more repellent than her customary sneer. Byrria had stated that she would make her suffer, but that she was about to thwart even this tiny mitigation of her ordeal was a particularly refined cruelty. The few training hours Taleena had spent without breast-support had proved that its absence would add greatly to the rigours of the day, and the fear of that eventuality had induced her to wear the breast-cloth despite the discomfort it caused her back.

With a sudden jerk, Byrria ripped away the flimsy garment, and Taleena bit her lip as she felt a cool gust of wind against her body, washing over her pendulous breasts and teasing the half-turgid nipples which were already stiffening in the morning air.

"Get up!" Byrria snapped at the half-naked recruit, and Taleena attempted to straighten her back. She had been dreading the moment that she would have to rise, and she had judged correctly that the weight of the water that she was bound to carry was nearly half of her own weight. She gasped from the strain, but try though she might, she could not rise; the water-weighted pails pinned her to the ground as securely as millstones.

"Stand her up !" Byrria ordered the two attendants who had brought the pails, "we can't wait all day until our Gallic princess deigns to rise," and with their aid Taleena finally managed to struggle to her feet. When they left her to bear the weight herself, her knees almost buckled under the oppressive weight of her burden, and she had to widen her stance twice to keep her balance. But when the swaying pails at either end of the yoke had steadied, she stood, the delicate wings of her nostrils flaring as she panted for breath.

Byrria smiled as she watched the blonde recruit struggle to stand upright, and her malevolent gaze came to rest on Taleena's heaving breasts. Her yoke-bearing posture lifted the arrogant mounds into even bolder prominence, and the nipples which protruded pertly from crinkled aureoles seemed to shiver in the cool breeze.

"So this is the one who was going to make me rue the day I 'killed' that useless Spaniard!" the Thracian sneered in a mocking voice. "Well, first of all it's not my fault that the weakling died – you and your trouble-making Celtic friend survived far worse floggings, did you not? You are the one, Gaul, who will come to rue the day you dared to confront me!"

Byrria smiled maliciously, enjoying the look of dismay in Taleena's blue eyes as they followed her right hand as it reached for the crop that hung from her belt. "Do you remember my promise that one day you'd want to barter your fate for that of the Spaniard?" The crop had come free now, and Byrria placed its biting tip against Taleena's cheek. "Well, today will be that day! Before the day is done, Gaul, you'll be begging me to put an end to your misery!"

"Never!" The flaxen-haired Avernian spat out defiantly, more in an effort to reassure herself than to contradict the spiteful lanista. Taleena felt her eyes filling with tears at the helplessness of her situation., but strove not to give the Thracian Fury the satisfaction of seeing her weakness. She closed her eyes to blink back her tears, and when she opened them again she managed to stand up to the Thracian's steady gaze.

"Oh yes I shall," Byrria continued, amused by Taleena's outburst. "Don't misunderstand, Gaul – I quite enjoy your persistence! I find it much more … amusing if you don't give in too quickly." She let the tip of the stiff leather crop slide across Taleena's cheek, down her elegant neck and then along the corded, concave hollow of the yoke-bearer's armpit, pressing against the tender edge of the welt which was imprinted there. "I think I may even spare your back today," she mused with a wicked smile as she brought the flat-tipped end of the crop to the side of Taleena's chest. "After all there are two sides to every coin!"

Taleena grimaced in pain and set her teeth against her underlip while Byrria traced the lofty contours of her slightly flattened breasts with her crop, poking the soft flesh until the springy instrument began to bow slightly when it met with resilient resistance.

Taleena turned her head as much as her burden allowed, to escape the Thracian's scornful glance, only to see Rutilius hovering over the kneeling Breaca near the centre of the yard. Taleena saw his lips move and had little doubt that he was taunting the defenceless sufferer as she struggled with her thorny load. But as if the young bully had sensed Taleena's eyes on him, he raised his head and looked in her direction, and an evil smile lit his pock-marked face as he saw the Avernian recruit in the claws of the Thracian tigress.

"Let's go!" Calixtus shouted to his crew of water-bearers and the enforced aquarii struggled to fall into formation. Taleena breathed a sigh of relief that the head lanista's business-like manner had spared her, for the moment, from the Thracian. But as glad as she was to escape Byrria's vile caresses, her heart sank when Calixtus announced the goal for the day. "Ten laps!" the bald ex-centurion barked at the recruits. "Complete them as quickly as you can, but mark these words well: Anyone who spills more than half of the contents of his pails is ripe for a demerit!"

"What are you waiting for, Gaul?" Byrria fumed, as she snapped the tip of the crop against the side of Taleena's breast. "You heard Calixtus! Ten laps!"

Ten laps! Taleena thought with dismay as she fought off the sting of the crop. A single lap bearing such a back-breaking load would be a daunting task, even if she were in peak condition. With her whip-torn back, the chances of fulfilling the issued quota seemed no greater than the chance of frogs raining from the sky.

The bare-breasted recruit took a tentative step forward, torn between the urge to walk quickly as Calixtus had ordered, and the need to refrain from spilling any water. Her dreadful burden weighed so heavily on her slender frame that she could barely lift her feet, which, as always, were hobbled by the ever-present ankle-weights. With each laborious step she felt the edges of the finely-ground cinders dig into the soles of her bare feet, but as much as she did her best to quicken her pace, it was next to impossible.

As she trudged slowly along, labouring under her immense load, Taleena was reminded of the horrific story Breaca had told her about her own Calvary. How she had been burdened with a heavy cross-piece, so that her arms and shoulders were lifted high, leaving the planes and valleys of her smooth back utterly defenceless while the wild-eyed, whip-wielding Thracian had marched her around the track. At least, thought Taleena, it didn't appear that she would be flogged at every step as Breaca had been. But this small blessing was a frail reed to lean on, since her back had already been shredded by the lash. And the pail-weighted patibulum pressed so relentlessly down on her shoulders that it was only a question of time until it would wear her down.

* * *

It didn't take the six men behind Taleena very long to pass the struggling blonde, since they had picked up a slow jog at the cost of spilling some water. Arminius was the first to pass her, followed by Bovarius and the Numidians. As she watched the small party of men increase their lead over her, Taleena became fully aware of how inferior she was to the men in regard to physical strength. She had always been conscious of that fact but never had her weakness seemed more blatantly apparent than today.

A pang of compassion surged through her, as thoughts of Selia filled her mind. She was beginning, now, to understand the despair that had haunted the Iberian's pretty face. For Selia had surely known that she was by far the weakest, and that she would always be first in line for the cruel discipline meted out to those the Fates had doomed to fail. When Selia had been alive, Taleena had always been able to feel superior to at least one of her comrades. But now that the poor sad-eyed girl had crossed the dark river, she, Taleena, was the weakest link in the chain of fighting slaves at the Ludus Flavianus.

The clouds had darkened even more, and a fine drizzle had set in, coating her body with a fine sheen of moisture that, if nothing else, had a cooling effect on her feverish system. Her lungs were burning with her panting efforts, her breasts aching, and her legs screamed silently for rest. She had never realized before how vital the gluteal muscles were for walking, but today she felt Byrria's final flesh-searing butt-slash with her every step.

The dilatory pace of her march caused the pails to sway and jerk at the beam, and when Taleena had finished her first lap, the beam had slid alarmingly down from its original position. The welts on her back throbbed intensely where the splintered wood rubbed against her sore skin, stretching the weals which were the livid legacy of the Thracian's lash.

Just then Taleena noticed that she had come again around the turn closest to the guardhouse, and this time she spotted Rutilius waiting for her alongside the track. 'Oh no!' she prayed fervently. 'Dear gods, if I have to fall, please don't let me fall down in front of this bastard!' But once more her pleas were to fall on deaf ears. Taleena howled in outrage as she heaved the beam back upon her aching shoulders, and almost overbalanced when her newly centred load forced her to bend forward. The pails were swaying dangerously as she straightened up again, and some water spilled over the rims as she struggled to keep her footing. But her left foot came down in a little hollow in the track, and she felt her ankle turn in the depression. Taleena cried out in pain and pitched forward, falling to her knees.

"You'd better watch your step, Gaul," Rutilius sneered with feigned concern. His beady eyes probed the luscious front of Taleena's body hungrily as the kneeling blonde fought to regain possession of her teetering burden.

"What a pretty little pack animal you are!" Rutilius scoffed. "So pretty, and yet too weak to carry a mere pair of pails! Maybe a few strokes of the whip would help you pick up the pace!" The young guard's eyes lingered on the crimson pattern on Taleena's back, and it seemed to her that he was reliving the strokes that had left her so utterly degraded. Byrria's whip had stripped her of her strength if not her pride, but how humiliating it was to endure the scorn of this despicable youth…

"Nice pair of jugs you've got there," Rutilius continued his spiteful mockery, pretending to refer to the buckets that swayed gently beneath her shoulder-yoke. "I like the way they jiggle when you move." Smiling lewdly at his obscene jibe he crossed his arms over his chest imperiously. "I can hardly wait to get my hands back on them," Rutilius taunted the kneeling recruit as his eyes roamed maraudingly over her bare breasts. The position of the yoke, which had again slid halfway down her shoulders, caused her to arch her back in a most provocative manner, and the light drizzle had covered Taleena's creamy skin with a moist sheen which gave her statuesque torso a most enticing gloss. Rutilius vividly remembered the touch and taste of those pink-crested mounds, so sublimely soft and yet so youthfully firm, and the sight of the pouting nipples that he had teased to such unwilling erectness drew a grunt of pleasure from his lips.

Taleena had to grit her teeth to keep from swinging the beam at Rutilius. She thought of her fervent vow to kill the filthy bastard for what he had done to her – a vow which seemed ludicrous given her present predicament. To find herself helplessly exposed to the jackal's cruel mockery made her livid with rage, but a small fraction of her consciousness kept in mind Breaca's advice not to let anger or hatred take the place of reason. And Taleena knew that she was well advised not to fall for Rutilius' provocations, since it would only play into his hands if she tried to attack him.

"You'll need to turn to Byrria for help then if you try to take me on," she muttered contemptuously, but was cut short by the need to re-balance the pail-weighted cross-piece when it began to slip to one side. "Were it not for her, boy, you'd rather be wetting your loin-cloth than coming the strong man!" she spat out between gasps as her angry blue eyes fired daggers at the leering youth .

Rutilius flushed angrily at this insult and took a half step forward, clenching his fist as if intent on attacking the kneeling recruit, when he noticed that Flavius Autronius was glaring at him sternly from the balcony. The young guard stopped in his tracks and lowered his hand while Taleena gave silent thanks to whichever god had turned Flavius' eyes toward her at that moment.

"I thought the whip had cured you of your attitude, galley whore," he cursed under his breath. "But I'll see to it that Byrria teaches you another lesson at the post at the end of this week." His cruel smile broadened as he whispered salaciously, "You know, I can still hear you whimpering under the lash. But don't you worry, I'll be right there to comfort you when the Thracian is through with you. And this time, whore, no big-mouthed Celtic bitch is going to stop me!"

Taleena kept glaring at the spiteful guard, but her anger seemed to make her burden somehow lighter as she shouldered it into place. She dragged her reluctant right leg forward across the gritty cinder, and then pushed with all her might, the effort contorting her beautiful face. She groaned miserably, urging the exhausted muscles in her slender legs to straighten up.

"There will be another time, Blondie," Rutilius hissed as he watched the teetering beam, and laughed crudely at the way Taleena's exposed breasts quivered from the strain. "The red-head is getting hers today, and it won't be long until it's your turn," he spat out before turning and stalking off, the very pock-marks on his face contorted with rage about the lost opportunity.

It took every ounce of Taleena's strength and every fibre of muscle in her straining back, arms, legs and shoulders to start anew, but finally she was on the move again, slowly putting further distance between herself and the malevolent boy-guard. She slowly approached the fighters' training area, and while Tyra and even the sinister-looking Hamilkar seemed to be sympathetic to the pitiful struggles of the sorely-tried recruit, Verica shot Taleena a fierce glance, as if blaming her for her sister's plight.

By the time Taleena managed to stagger past the finish line for the second time, her knees were wobbling uncontrollably, but once again she forced her body to rebel against the looming loss of vigour. Even so, when she passed the front of the balcony from which Flavius watched her helpless struggles, she was outstripped by the leading men – first by the giant Arminius, of course, then by the boorish Bovarius, whose ox-like build was well-suited to a competition where physical strength was at a premium. The bitter sense of being outclassed so thoroughly led Taleena to the fateful attempt to lengthen her stride in order to keep pace.

But this only caused her weary legs to give out completely, and she crashed heavily to her knees. The crushing force of the cross-piece bent her forward, and she instinctively turned her face inward to keep from striking the rain-dampened ground face-first. Lying prone in the moist sand in a cruciform position, pinned down by her cross-piece, she saw the left of the twin pails overturned on the ground. She clawed for it desperately, hoping to right it, but could not. She watched its contents trickle away from her, carrying with them her waning hopes of finishing the run within the handicap.

As she lay there, feeling the pressure of the heavy yoke on the nape o her neck, one side of her face pressed into the damp ground, Taleena's eyes were turned toward the centre of the arena, where Breaca knelt in abject misery. She saw her friend struggling under her own dreadful load, trying to keep the fiendish flesh-piercing thorns away from her shoulders, knowing that she was fighting a hopeless battle.

Taleena was soon was passed by the other Germans and then the dark-skinned Numidians, and with each passer-by her resignation edged closer to utter despair. She knew that she had already garnered today's demerit – so what was the point in struggling on? Byrria might taunt her and prod her and lash her, but eventually even the Thracian Fury would come to the realization that she simply could take no more.

But then it struck her that this was what Byrria wanted her to do – she wanted her to quit, to give in to the brutal treatment, to concede defeat. That realization stirred Taleena as nothing else would have, and a strong wave of defiance rose up within her. She remembered Breaca's plea: 'Whatever Byrria may do to you, promise me that you will not falter!' When she had said those words the Celt could not have known that she herself would soon suffer Byrria's wrath. Breaca had risked all to help her, and Taleena felt honour bound to live up to her comrade's exhortations. For was not Breaca's task of bearing the dreadful Thorns of Atlas, even more horrible and hopeless than her own? If she surrendered now, Breaca's selfless sacrifice would be stripped of all meaning.